The Proof of the Pudding
by Pemmican
Summary: In which Egill's attempts at getting things accomplished are continually thwarted. Particularly by those he barely know.


He's always there, that accordion player.

Every Friday afternoon, Egill would see him in front of the café. Seated by the door on a collapsible stool, never far from his accordion case. Sometimes their eyes would meet, his brightening with recognition; a grin always follows. But most of the time his eyes would be closed, or half-slitted at the very least, his head bowed and still. His fingers would run across the side keyboard, pressing various buttons with a dexterity reminiscent of a spider. The faded cap at his feet is always filled to the brim with coins, upon which he'd replace his instrument and fold up his stool. With his cap in one hand, the stool and case in another, he'd walk inside. And order hot chocolate, as he always does, paying with near half the day's earnings.

"Look at him," Arthur would say, his eyes narrowing. "The chap's always here. Doesn't he have anything better to do?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Matthew would reply, in halting norwegian. "He looks happy enough" The two of them would get off track continuing the discussion, in rapid english and with voices low. Egill would roll his eyes and hold back a sigh.

He has no problem with the presence of the accordion player. The other may be only a few years older than them, true, but the implications shouldn't concern them. Besides, Egill rather enjoys the music.

He's never said any more than good afternoon to the man. He may drop a coin or two into the cap but, more often than not, he'd barely look at the other; being either preoccupied or lacking in spare change.

Today is no different. He gives the other a nod before entering the café, hands tucked into (empty) pockets. Arthur and Matthew are already there, they wave. He sits down, envelops hands round the mug in front of him, waits for the return of warmth to his fingers. "Now," Arthur says, when he's taken a few sips of his coffee. "I spent last week-end at Grandfather's, perused the library. He's agreed to lend me a few books." He opens his schoolbag and, one by one, places his age-worn finds on the table.

The two each take hold of a book. Egill opens his to a page of faded handwriting and diagram— a pentacle, he immediately notes, eyes narrowing. Beside him, Matthew is skeptical.

"'_A Treatise upon Demonology_'?" he reads aloud, to his cousin's scowl.

"You never know," Arthur mutters. "That book may just save us one day." Matthew rolls his eyes, and is surely about to make a retort when they hear a vaguely familiar voice from behind.

"Mind if I sit here?" it asks cheerily. "All the other tables are full." And so they are.

The accordion player is standing by their table, grinning, a steaming cup in hand. Egill nods at an empty seat beside him before Arthur can say anything. The man sits, sets the case and stool down beside him. "Thanks— uh, I don't know your name?"

"Egill Rasmussen."

"Søren." His schoolmates introduce themselves, handshakes and greetings follow, more than five minute's time passes before they finish; upon which they find themselves immediately drawn into further conversation with the youngish man. Søren rambles about whatever strikes his fancy while they listen, nod at his every pause, and shoot each other looks wondering _is he ever going to shut up?_

They finally get their wish when he stops to drink his already-cooled chocolate, somewhat short of breath. As he replaces his cup, his eyes fall on the small stack of books. "What's this for? A school project?" In the resulting silence, Matthew develops a sudden interest in the _Treatise _whereas Egill stares at Søren.

The accordion player appears to be just another face in the crowd, with his blond hair and blue eyes. He doesn't dress like a musician; he's always looked as though he's just picked up his instrument from who-knows-where, and it'd be hard to believe he could actually play it if Egill hadn't seen him. But what makes him stand out, above all else, is that ridiculously broad grin spread across his face. For all they know, the expression may be stuck on his face all the time; Egill's yet to see him without it.

Arthur's the one to break the silence, launching into a long-winded explanation on the so-called project; he talks so fast they barely catch his words… and even if they manage to do so, could barely understand them. The string of elaborate words leaves them all staring, Søren with eyes especially glazed over. Arthur notices this.

"For history," he clarifies and pauses, trying to remember what the other's been talking about earlier; and failing. So he says instead, casually, "One of my favourite subjects, actually."

"Really?" The man brightens. "Well, I think…" and off he goes, this time chattering about the time of the vikings, of all things; they sigh, let themselves sink into their respective seats. Thus they've stayed, nodding and not particularily listening and trying to keep awake at times, until Egill comes close to breaking his nose.

_N__ot_ out of any desperation, mind; it's just that he's been leaning forward with each nod, and has been just short of collapsing onto the table altogether. His eyes snap open and he sits up, biting back a curse. Glances at his watch—

It's nearing curfew.

He curses under his breath as he stands. "I have to go," he tells the others. Frowns at the view beyond the nearest window, the sky's beginning to darken, he turns back to his chair. Slings his bag over a shoulder, looking about him at the near-deserted café. This is where they've spent who knows how many hours, listening and nodding at a near-stranger's words. They've barely gotten anything done, didn't they?

He opens his mouth as the thought rises unbidden, only to clamp it shut immediately. Shaking his head, he heads for the door, not hearing whatever it is Søren's just told him; probably just a good-bye. The cold air sweeps past him, leaves his hair in disarray. He closes the door, hunches his shoulders.

And drags himself home.

* * *

Egill Rasmussen: human name for Iceland

Søren: human name for Denmark

Merry christmas, everyone! This year I bring you the first chapter of this new fic I've been working on; though I've yet to work everything out, especially in terms of plot, so updates will be slow. Oh well.


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